dribble
into this white spaceand wiggle to life,
to become perhaps
a poem
or the last leg
of one.
I can do this all day.
I am in no hurry.
I can get up any time for a stroll
then sit down again here
or in some other cafe
and read Sharon Olds' confessions
to loosen my shy tongue
until words sprinkle around
and I see some consoling truth
emerge in this or that phrase
and then lean back,
sip more coffee,
hear thoughts meander
out of their caves
down my right hand
onto this page,
just as I magined
all those years
sitting in that high rise
looking down on cafes
where people at small tables
like this one
sat for hours
eavesdropping,
scribbling.
Someday that will be you,
a voice consoled.
That voice of longing
that won't die in me.
